


The King's King

by YouMeAtNope



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Basically Jon Snow but his family aren't so uppity about him not being a true 'Stark', Bastard Marco, Blowjobs, Deaths, Foreplay, Game of Thrones AU, Gay, Jean is the honourable King Joffrey, King Jean, M/M, Multi, No slow burn - just carefully played for optimum gay, Prince Marco, Romance, Violence, but not main characters, royal blowjobs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 09:36:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10554100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouMeAtNope/pseuds/YouMeAtNope
Summary: Everyone knows that when a prince comes of age, he is fit to marry a girl who will become his princess. But what happens when the Prince becomes King and he doesn't want his Queen? This King wants his own King to share his bed, and who is a man to deny his King his greatest desire?





	

**Author's Note:**

> I've been binge watching Game of Thrones recently, and I was actually attempting to update one of my previous Jeanmarco fics when I had a sudden lightbulb moment: Jean as Joffrey Baratheon... just not as much of an asshole.
> 
> I also haven't written a fic in quite some time, so please bear with me my dudes.

Cold winds blew throughout the North, sending snow flurries across the frost covered land. The grass was thick with equal parts snow and ice; and a heavy sense of dread hung over the surrounding landscape. Thick furred brown rabbits darted across the covered earth and stone, doing their best to leap from grassy areas that weren't covered in a blanket of white. Their icy paws thumped against the earth, leaving mere paw prints in their wake as their pads met crisp patches of ice and snow.

A lone raven squawked, flapped its wings and glided over the walls of the Castle of Bodt, a leather strap connected to its leg; a small roll of parchment held snug against the leather. Within the castle walls, people hustled to and fro, brandishing numerous items; candles, barrows of firewood, baskets of vegetables. Within the courtyard, a man had passed through the gate upon a wagon, a large grey mare pulling the rickety cart along behind it. Numerous game were piled upon the back, their feet and hooves poking out of the thick cloth that sheltered them from the elements.

They were preparing for a great feast with the most noble people of the Seven Kingdoms; the Kirschteins. The King rode for Winterfell, his courtiers and family alongside him as they rode across the Kingsroad for a month to reach the North. The air was much colder, the weather much harsher than the weather of the South. It was to be expected for some courtiers to die along the way, as well as some of the animals that the party brought with them. The Kirschteins feasted like kings along the way, being of noble birth; whereas the handmaidens and cup-bearers would suffer from the bone chilling weather. As long as a Kirschtein was nearby, a great fire would be there, yet the family and courtiers still feared for the health of their own precious princes and princess. All three of the Kirschtein children had a claim to the throne, and each one of them would be expected to produce more heirs to the throne; a sick Kirschtein jeopardised the long lasting reign of the House of Kirschtein. 

The King's family consisted of his wife Cedany, his sons Rowan and Jean, and his daughter Gloriana. The King himself was a rather large man, equal parts fat and tall, and rather red faced from years of overeating and alcoholism. King Reynard was once considered to be the best friend of Milo, Lord of Winterfell. Both men fought alongside one another as boys on the battlefield, and so it was to be expected that both families would finally join together one day when Prince Jean married one of Milo's daughters. 

Milo's own family consisted of him, his wife Camilla, his sons Marcel and Midas, his daughters Mina and Mirren, and his bastard son; Marco. All of the Bodt children sported chestnut coloured hair and deep blue eyes, taking features from their mother and father; whereas Marco remained as the outcast of the family, with porcelain skin that was adorned with constellations of freckles, dark raven hair and light brown eyes. 

It was the youngest son, Marcel, who was the first to become aware of the Kirchteins' arrival. He had entered the tallest tower in Winterfell and held the stone walls on either side of him as he stood before the window. He squinted through the fog and could see a hazy group slowly making their way towards the castle; a rather large procession that was easily recognised. The royal family. 

"They're here." He whispered in amazement, peering out of the window and gazing down at his large elkhound, Geir. The hound whined up at his owner, begging him to come down from the tower. "Geir, you're so impatient." Marcel muttered with a roll of his eyes, yet did as his hound had bid, and made his way down the stone steps of the tower. The stone openings of the tall building enticed him over, begging him to climb out of them; yet Marcel shrugged off his need to clamber and climb. The tower was ages old, and ridiculously high; and he promised his mother he wouldn't climb it anymore. 

"Staircases exist for a reason, my boy. You've no need to sneak up the walls and plunder treasure from within, you are a little lord; not a bandit." 

His mother's words hung heavy on his shoulders, like the arm of an embrace, guiding him firmly down the stairs - even as the wind whipped and howled from the windows where glass once sat. Once firmly on the ground Marcel whistled for his hound to follow him, and they tore across the castle grounds; boot clad feet and paws pounding on the icy gravel as they moved towards the main house. Geir stuck close to his master's ankles, long tongue lapping out the side of his mouth as they reached the castle where Marcel's father stood.

He was a tall man, dressed in a dark leather tunic, a bear and fox skin cloak clasped to his shoulders to keep out the bitter winter chill. With a sword fixed to his side, he appeared to be waiting to step onto a grand battlefield, yet Milo Bodt's days of fighting and battles were were and truly over. He was much too old, and much too tired.

"Father!" Marcel called, cheeks red and chapped from the harsh wind and heavy running. Milo turned to his son, raising an eyebrow as he briefly nodded to the man who once sat upon the game wagon. "Thank you, I trust everything will be in order." He focused on his son once more. "What is it, Marce?" Marcel stuck a finger in the direction of the castle gates, chest aching from the cold as he replied to his father.

"The Kirschteins, they're-"

"Approaching the castle?" His father finished, interrupting the red-faced boy. A frown crossed Marcel's features as he placed a hand on Geir's head, rubbing the dog's soft fur. 

With a grin the boy nodded. "Yes, I saw them when I was in the tower... How did you know?" Milo raised a fist in response, between his fingers was a roll of parchment. Marcel had failed to spot the raven that flew overhead mere moments before he reached his father. "A raven delivered news of their arrival." Marce whispered, feeling  _mildly_ disappointed. His father stepped forward and placed a gloved hand on his shoulder, attempting to bustle his son towards the castle door. Geir padded after the two of them as Milo informed his son of the duties that had to be done before they received the Kirschteins in the main courtyard.

Castle hands moved to and fro, much like they did outside, arranging various objects and items of food that were required for their visitors. Numerous large iron chandeliers filled with fresh candles were hoisted up with chains until they reached their assigned beams, smaller torches were already lit, helping to light the dark stone hall. Grand oak tables were shifted across the room, leaving space between to fit an arrange of chairs. The seating arrangements varied from simple wooden stools, to grandly upholstered chairs - almost thrones - for their respected guests. To the Bodts, they held a high level of respect for low born people, as they helped the family achieve so much over the years; yet it was evident that the family and hands of the castle must show an even higher level of respect for the approaching royals; few would dare to deny their 'betters'.

With a firm, yet loving, grasp on Marcel's shoulder, Milo led him through the great hall, smiling across at some of the castle hands, thanking them for their hard work. Camilla Bodt stood at the very back of the room upon the stone steps, advising a stout woman with yellow hair about how the tables should be decorated. Marcel's mother was viewed as the epitome of beauty according to those that lived in her homeland of Riverrun; a picture of auburn hair and a glowing complexion. She shared the same blue eyes of her children, yet they sported the chestnut hair of their father. 

A smile curled on Milo's lips as he gazed over at his wife, she soon lifted her head to face him, and she offered him a smile of her own. They were a true match, a couple that actually shared love with one another. Marcel averted his gaze, allowing his parents to enjoy this publicly private moment as his eyes were firmly fixed on a rather large selection of wine and ale that grew in the corner of the room. His focus on the growing collection of alcohol was disturbed as his father began to speak to him once more.

"See all of the work people are putting into today?" His son offered a smile and a nod in response. He was just an excited ten-year-old, someone who was ecstatic at the idea of being surrounded by the King and his courtiers. Marcel was a curious child, and he hadn't had many opportunities to take in anything outside of Winterfell. He had scarcely seen a summer, so the fresh colours of gold and red that he knew grew closer simply sent adrenaline coursing through his veins.

"This is a very important day, Marce. We all have to be on our best behaviour, even me." Geir gave up on standing, and took to sitting beside Marcel, pressing his muzzle against his hip as his ears pricked up, taking in the voices around him. "But why is the King even coming here, father?" He tilted his head as his father let go of his shoulder. Marcel could see the weight suddenly added to his father, he appeared to have aged another ten years in a single second. His father didn't give an immediate reply, but he sighed and with bated breath he gave his son a vague reply.

"Perhaps, if things go according to King Reynard's plan, you'll see for yourself." 

No response came from the boy, he stood silent and oddly confused as he stared up at his father. Milo offered his son no chance to respond, as he changed the subject and cupped a hand against the back of Marcel's neck. "Come on, you need to get properly dressed if we're to greet the King and Queen."

The pair moved towards a door, aiming to walk to the corridor that led to the family chambers, yet their motion was halted when the remaining Bodt children entered the castle. Midas, the eldest, led the children inside. He had already donned the appropriate attire needed to greet the royal family, as had Mirren, the eldest girl. Mina, the youngest girl, and Marco weren't as prepared as their siblings. Two elkhounds followed the small procession as they passed through the great hall, Milo attempted to hide his now aged expression as he smiled across at his children.

The four of them wore fur cloaks over their clothes in an attempt to keep out the cold on this particularly chilly day, yet Mina appeared even less dressed than the others as she wore a pair of cotton riding pants and a small shirt. The Bodts' father took in the youngest daughter's appearance and merely laughed at his daughter's boyish appearance. "Not ready to look like a lady tonight, Mina?" He asked her, watching her grimace at his words.

"I don't want to be a lady." She huffed, to which Midas wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her into his side.

"And Marco doesn't want to be a bastard, but there's no changing that. All you have to do is slap on a dress to change yourself." His words caused a half-offended expression to fall on Marco's freckled face. There was a rather stark comparison between him and his siblings; he appeared to be a servant of theirs, or a ward of Milo's, not a brother. Still, Marco said not a word in reply to his brother's humour as he moved around his siblings to meet his father.

"Word is the Kirschteins aren't far from the castle. I expect you want Mina, Marce and I to change?" His face seemed to grow warmer as he gazed up at his father. He was a couple of inches shorter than his father, and he doubted he'd grow much taller in the next few years; being eighteen-years-old already. The man before him offered him both a nod and a well deserved smile.

"Best you all hurry, they'll be arriving shortly. I've had word from a raven, and Marcel has seen them." Milo informed his son, soon looking over to Mina. "All three of you, get ready." Their hounds seemed to groan for them, yet followed after Mina, Marcel and Marco nonetheless. Marco's hound was a snowy white, his eyes crimson. He was shorter than his siblings, yet seemed to be faster than the lot of them.

 Marco, Marcel and Mina all gathered and walked the corridor, elkhounds following, Mina whining as they went. "I don't see why I have to impress them." She moaned, ensuring her voice was loud enough for her father to hear. A laugh sounded behind her, and she allowed a pleased smile to cross her lips as she reached her room and shut herself and her hound Heidi inside.

* * *

Horse hooves drummed against the stone floor like coconut shells as men rode into the courtyard through the castle gates. A short fanfare rung throughout the courtyard, the brass notes echoing off the stone walls of the castle. The visitors siphoned through the castle gates in a sweeping river of gold, red and heavily polished steel. The initial members of the party were bannermen, knights and other finely dressed men on horseback. Numerous red banners whipped back and forth in the northern wind, emblazoned with the anchor and twin stars of Kirschtein. 

A man rode ahead of the next party, dressed in decorated gold and bronze armor. He was the Queen's brother, Taurin, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. He was deemed to be a handsome, but untrustworthy man. He had beheaded countless men, and was feared by many. In reality, he was an arrogant fool, and he used his killings as a shield. He was once a scared little boy, yet he feared nothing the very first time he went into battle. 

Behind Taurin rode another man, more of a boy when he grew closer. He was dressed in a red leather tunic, with a heavy bear skin cloak draped over his shoulder. His hair was fine and golden, the underneath cut close to his head, being a rather odd brown, giving him two toned hair. Most expected him to wear an arrogant smirk, much like the one his uncle brandished, yet he appeared to be what his uncle once was; a scared little boy. He had one of those faces that made it hard to tell his age; was he a boy or was he a man?

"That must be Prince Jean. I've heard he looks like a child in a man's body." Mina whispered, causing Midas to laugh. Her mother caught her words, as did her father, and she shot her daughter a harsh expression of warning. A single bad move could result in a severe punishment on this particular day. The tense atmosphere only increased as a decorated red carriage entered the castle gates, yet Marco could only offer it a glimpse as he was so heavily focused on the Prince. His face was smooth, angular, and Marco clenched his hands at his sides as he gazed up at him.

He was stupidly gorgeous. While his younger sister believed the Prince to be a boy, Marco saw differently. He saw a young man with the weight of the Seven Kingdoms on his shoulders. He had only ever heard rumors about the things that went on in King's Landing, the home of the royal family. Something stirred within him, something he passed off as a feeling of dread. Prince Jean was the man, the person, that his sister Mirren would marry. A less fearful expression then seemed to cross Jean's face as he looked down the line of the Bodt family, taking in each face. 

The Prince stared a while at Mina, then Mirren, smiling at her, and Marco and Midas both looked at one another out of the corner of their eyes. A silent exchange. He then looked at Marcel, Midas, and then his eyes met Marco's. Marco wanted to stare at him, he really did. He enjoyed the warm feeling he received when the Prince's lips pulled up at the corner in a lopsided smile that no one else could see, but he quickly cast his gaze to the ground. Some of the royal family could have your eyes gouged from your head if you dared to look them in the eye; and Marco had certainly looked at Jean. When the Prince cast his own gaze to the ground, Marco found himself taking another peak of his own.

Midas, on the other hand, outright stared at the Prince, clearly staring him down. He also knew that he would be made to marry Mirren, and he didn't want his little sister being shipped off to King's Landing to be the King's whore. Bad things happened to anyone close to the King, and the Bodts of Winterfell shared this fear. They wanted Mirren to be safe, and this marriage would happen eventually, whether they wanted it to or not. 

Midas and Marco were so fixed on watching Jean that they didn't notice the rest of their family bending their knees in the presence of the King. They heard their congregation shift, and soon looked around and followed suit; resting a single knee on the ground as they bowed their heads to King Reynard. Fearful, respectful gazes, were cast to the stone ground below as the King approached on horseback, and two hands moved to place a set of wooden steps beside the King's horse, allowing him to dismount. As quick as Reynard was on the ground, he made a beeline for Milo. He was very much a large man, his face red, and his dark hair hanging in greasy tendrils around his face. He had always been a man who never cared much for his appearance - but his reputation? He carried a heavy sword on his belt, though it would appear that he hadn't been in combat for many years.

The King stopped before Milo Bodt and lowered a hand, gesturing for the congregation to rise to their feet. They did as they were bid and rose like an almighty wave, following Milo as he was the first to stand. "Your Grace." He greeted him with a voice as solemn as the expression he wore. Milo was aware of why the King had rode for a month to reach him, and he didn't like being aware of such knowledge. 

"God, you've gotten old." Reynard stated, his face as solemn as the man before him. A moment's silence followed before Milo nodded towards the King, mirroring his own aged appearance. The two men both grinned, laughed and embraced one another. "Nine years... Why haven't I seen you? Where the hell have you been?" 

"Guarding the North for you, Your Grace." Was Milo's response. This was very much true, for Milo was declared Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North. His attention was momentarily diverted from the King as handmaidens began to emerge from the red carriage, alongside Prince Rowan, Princess Gloriana, and the Queen. Queen Cedany approached, the party fell silent once more. She wore a burgundy dress, draped in a heavy fox skin cloak the colour of yellow ochre; another Southern dweller who wasn't used to the cold of the North.

She stood before Milo and offered a forced smile as she offered him her hand to kiss, and he did so, feeling the ice of her skin. Her hand was gone as quick as she could move it without being viewed as impolite, before she made her way down the line of Bodts, offering a restrained smile at each member; accepting Midas' hand when he moved to his her knuckles. She then stopped in front of Marco, raising her head just that bit higher as she scanned his face and hair, paused, then peered over at the other children.

"And this one... a servant of yours?" Cedany laughed, a rather nasal sound, as she raised an eyebrow at Milo and Camilla. It was clear that she had noticed the stark differences between Marco and his siblings. All with chestnut hair and blue eyes, Marco with black hair and brown eyes. It was obvious what the Queen was implying. 

Milo cleared his throat, his voice low as he addressed the Queen. "My son. Marco." A cat-like grin began to grow on Cedany's lips as she tilted her head in a condescending manner, her face a picture of utter disbelief. "But he looks so much different to the others." Midas stirred at his half-brother's side, and shifted forward in an attempt to speak his mind. Marco stopped him in his tracks, grabbed his wrist and pulled him back without even changing his expression.

It was then that Marco said something that no one ever thought he would, something that he always did his best to keep hidden inside of him. He said something that made him look like dirt in the eyes of the Queen, and he was proud of looking like dirt.

 

_Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor, and it can never be used to hurt you._

 

 "That would be because I am a bastard, Your Grace." The Queen's mouth shut as quickly as it had opened, as the words were all but torn from her mouth as Reynard spoke.

"A bastard. _Snow_ , I take it?" Reynard inquired, his voice strangely hesitant. Bastards from the North took on the surname 'Snow', each name differed depending on location. "Yes, Your Grace." Was his reply, he offered a single nod and the King sucked his lips into his mouth as he waited for the poison to spill from his not-so-beloved wife's lips.

"Good boy, it's best to know your place." She stated, offering the eighteen-year-old Marco a sickeningly warm smile. At this, Marco's hardened expression dropped, leaving him the very picture of a vulnerable boy. He admitted defeat and dropped back, standing behind Midas. He didn't deserve to stand alongside his siblings, that is what the Queen was suggesting.

"The boy is my son, and I plan to treat him as such." Milo's voice was something close to a roar, and he held his head high as he faced Cedany head on. She said no more, but the red that crept up her neck informed Milo that he should hold his tongue.  

"Well said, Mils." Reynard bellowed, causing Cedany to wince as she was so close to his side. Marco smirked at that. The King addressed his beloved friend once more with a smile as Milo gestured towards the open doors of the castle. "After you."

The small congregation proceeded to follow after the Lord and King; red, gold, silver and an assortment of grey filtered in behind the two men; save from Marco as Camilla placed a firm hand on his shoulder before he could enter the castle - his own home. He tensed beneath her touch and slowly craned his head to face her, doing his best to refrain from gulping or shrugging her hand off. "Yes, my Lady?" 

Camilla was silent for a moment as she chose her words carefully, knowing better than to say something to purposefully offend her step-son, but after a moment or two she broke the silence. "I don't think it would be wise for you to enter with your siblings, I believe the Queen to be offended already." Her words were harsh, yet soft. Her relationship with Marco had always been prickly, yet she knew it wasn't his fault. A child doesn't choose their parentage, and it so happened that Marco didn't have the chance to choose her as his mother.

"Yes, my Lady." He murmured, politely allowing her to retract her hand so that she could move and step inside alone. 

A silent rage flooded through Marco's body, yet it knew better than to show it. He merely shrugged his anger off like a shiver from the cold, and everyone believed it but the Prince who now stood on his own two feet some five paces from Marco. Not a word was uttered between the two, yet Marco watched Jean's face contort into a painted expression as he nodded at the black haired boy as he passed. A weak smile graced his lips and he passed through the doors, and Marco watched the candlelight from within disappear, along with Jean's figure, as the doors fell shut.

 


End file.
